


Chalk and Cheese

by Thomas



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-01-01
Updated: 1996-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thomas/pseuds/Thomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously published in printed format in the zine D-Notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chalk and Cheese

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments._

—William Shakespeare

 **Bodie** arrived at the CI5 offices at 6:55 a.m. precisely, parked his car and skipped up the concrete steps. He didn't bother to ask the security guard if the old man was in yet; Cowley was always hard at work before the sun had decently cleared the horizon. Bodie sometimes wondered if his boss ever went home for more than a change of clothes.

He stepped out of the lift, humming a jaunty sailor's tune to himself, keeping time to the sound of his footsteps on the tiles. At the end of the hall, he caught sight of a blue dress and gold hair. Linda, the Ballistics clerk, heels clicking as she hurried his way. She nodded and ducked her head, about to pass on.

"Good mornin"' he said, beaming at her.

"Good morning," she echoed, faintly, flicking a nervous glance at him—Bodie was not known for such early morning cheer. On the contrary.

He continued to smile down at her while he fished around in his mind for a compliment. "You're very chic today."

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Bloody marvellous." He winked at her. "How about yourself?"

Flustered, she mumbled something and hurried on.

With a shrug, he sauntered on towards Cowley's office, still smiling. And why shouldn't he be? It was spring, the weather was wonderful, life was wonderful, and last week he had passed the CIS physical again and wouldn't have to worry—until next year, anyway. There was even a fresh coat of white paint on the usually dingy corridor walls.

And if that wasn't enough, there was always Jennifer, or the lovely what's-her-name, as Doyle had taken to calling his girlfriends. He chuckled at that. The little bugger's attempts over the years to interfere with, or at least poke fun at, Bodie's love life, were a never-ending source of entertainment to Bodie, motivated as they were, he suspected, by plain ordinary envy.

Well, Doyle would be happy to hear that Jennifer was the last in a long line. Oh, definitely the last.

He rounded the corner of the waiting area. Speak of the devil. Doyle stood there, hands jammed in his pockets, scowling at the coffee machine.

"Mornin', sunshine."

Doyle thumped the machine, hard. "That's fifty p this bloody thing has stolen from me already—"

He glanced up at Bodie. "What're you so happy about," he snapped, and thumped the vending machine again.

"In spring a young man's fancy turns lightly to love and all that."

Doyle finally got the recalcitrant machine to spit out a black viscous liquid that bore not the slightest resemblance to coffee in Bodie's opinion, and he declined the offer of a sip.

"A new bird, is it?" Doyle nodded sagely. "Thought you were breaking a record with what's-her- name."

Bodie grinned and shook his head.

"Listen," Doyle said, "Sandra's about to give me the push, like to get one last good one in, say we make a double-date of it."

"Not this time," Bodie said.

"S'matter, scared she might see what's she passin' up for you?"

"Nah, scared the sight of you will run her off."

"Thanks," Doyle said. He swallowed some coffee and made a horrendous grimace. "This is 'orrible," he said, as if surprised that it could indeed taste as bad as it looked.

"Don't drink anymore," Bodie advised.

Doyle ignored him. He retrieved a packet of sugar from his jacket pocket, dumped it in the cup, and sloshed the coffee around before cautiously taking another sip. Bodie watched all of this with detached amusement. Wishful thinking had always been one of Doyle's strong points.

"Listen," Doyle began, oblivious, "Cowley wants us to follow up on that shop assistant killing two days ago."

"What's the connection?"

"CID found some interesting phone numbers in his address book, I gather."

"Blackmail?"

“I don't know, never tells me anything, does he? Sounds pretty routine, though." As Doyle rattled off the details of the case, Bodie's attention drifted. Routine, predictable—how was Doyle going to react to the news? That was the trouble, he could never be entirely sure how Doyle would take things. You'd think that after all these years he could predict Doyle's responses with the confidence of an astronomer predicting the phases of the moon, and while that was true on the job, in personal matters he felt more like the local weatherman. Fair weather and sunny skies for tomorrow. Then again, it may rain.

Bodie did not wonder why this should be so. He merely accepted it, as he accepted the features of every environment, like the incessant background humming of heat-maddened insects that had permeated the Congo; accepted it and learnt to live with it.

He realised Doyle had stopped talking and was staring at him, eyes narrowed. "She must be something, this new bird of yours. You heard a word I said?"

"Not a one," Bodie said blissfully. "That's all right, you would have told me again, anyway."

Doyle rolled his eyes in irritation and sniffed. "Well, I set an interview in an hour with the shop manager, might be able to put us on to Markham's friends. If we leave now, we’ll have time to stop for a real coffee."

"Got to see Cowley first."

Doyle emptied the cup into the dustbin. "Let's go."

"No. Alone."

Bodie waited for the storm to break over his head. Would it be icy disapproval or a hot flood of sarky comments? "I see," Doyle said. Icy disapproval it was.

"I’ll meet you in the carpark, then," Bodie said.

Doyle shrugged. "Yeah, ok."

It wasn't ok at all, Bodie could see that in the aggressively squared shoulders. If only he would ask, I would tell him, Bodie thought. He should be the first to know.

After a long measuring look, Doyle said, "Don't be all day about it, will you?" He strode off down the corridor.

Bodie let out his breath slowly, disappointment momentarily clouding his good mood. Of course Doyle wouldn't ask. He never asked. Never took that risk. Just took for granted he knew everything there was to know about Bodie and got all huffy when he found out different.

Well, he wasn't going to let Doyle's crossness spoil his day. Anyway, he'd get over it, Bodie was positive from long experience, be his usual bouncy self as if nothing had happened, although Bodie could look forward to the usual petty revenge, like Doyle offering to buy him a sandwich and deliberately bringing back something Bodie hated.

He found himself in front of Cowley's door and knocked, once.

"Come."

As he expected, Cowley was hunched over his desk, suit coat slung over the back of his chair, sandy hair awry, myriad papers fanned out in front of him.

Bodie drew up a chair and sat down, crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He knew the rules.

Cowley extracted a bright yellow folder from one of the piles, put on his glasses, opened the folder and started flipping pages, pausing now and then to read.

Bodie began humming softly again.

"What was it you wanted to see me about, Bodie?" Cowley said without so much as glancing.

"The lilacs are blooming," Bodie said.

Another sheet of paper was flipped over. “I take it that remark has some significance?"

“The deepest." His gaze drifted round the sparsely furnished office, passed by the row of grey filing cabinets, lingered over the antique wardrobe gleaming the colour of Spanish sherry under the sunlight spilling in through the blinds, and returned to his boss who was now taking notes. His pen squeaked. Bet I could sit here all day before he took notice, Bodie thought in vague resentment He made a face at Cowley, and suppressed a snicker.

"In your own time, 3/7," Cowley said with a hint of acid. He capped his pen and laid it on the desk.

Bodie tired of the game and waded in. "You remember all that stuff about the fine print in the contract saying an agent couldn't marry without your permission?"

"Yes?"

“I’ve come to ask your permission."

"Hmmph," was all Cowley said. He slapped the folder closed and selected a new one. "I really think Doyle could handle these matters for himself—"

"Not Doyle, sir. Me."

Cowley's head snapped up. "You?"

Only a lifetime of military discipline prevented Bodie from smiling in glee. "Yes, sir. Thought you should be the first to know, sir."

"Well." Cowley took off his glasses and dangled "them from his fingers. He stared at Bodie, the pale blue of his eyes intensified by shock. Bodie waited patiently for the next step. The old man would never guess how easy he was for Bodie to read.

"Well," Cowley said again. He shoved his chair back and rose slowly, never taking his eyes off Bodie. "You, Bodie? After all these years?"

Bodie shrugged. "Got tired of the merry-go-round."

Cowley nodded.

"And, well..." Bodie added when Cowley didn't comment, "I'm spinning my wheels now, going nowhere."

"You understand the complications?"

Silently, Bodie handed him a small envelope.

"What's this for?"

"Name, address, photo, relatives, all that. Check her out."

"Indeed." He put his glasses back on and briefly went through the contents. As to himself he said, "Doyle can—"

Bodie felt his nails digging into his palm.

"No, on second thought, Allison can handle it." He looked up at Bodie again. "She's very pretty. What are your plans?"

"Haven't got any yet," Bodie replied. "I thought it best to wait until you've finished with her."

"Aye." Cowley set the envelope down and ran a hand through his hair. He studied Bodie with abstracted gaze, eyes nearly colourless now as he considered the situation, weighed all the elements and came to a decision. A rueful grin spread across his face. "I’ll be damned—congratulations to you, man."

Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and grinned back.

Cowley limped around his desk and sat on the edge, gesturing at the wardrobe. "It's a wee early for a drink, but och, why not?"

"Thank you, sir, I believe I will, sir." Bodie fetched glasses and bottle, and presented the latter to Cowley with the smoothness of long established ritual.

"A toast is in order, I believe," Cowley said after pouring the drinks. He frowned. "Not something I've often had occasion to do."

"There's a first time for everything, sir."

'Perhaps," Cowley said, "if a trifle optimistic." He assumed a stern air. "I prefer to defer the honours until I am quite certain they are required. You may yet change your mind."

'To pure malt scotch, then?" Bodie suggested.

Cowley's grin returned briefly. He raised his glass. 'To pure malt scotch."

Bodie swallowed his drink in one gulp and set the glass down. "Got to run, sir, Doyle's expectin' me—you know, Markham."

Cowley nodded towards the door. "On your bike, then." He topped off his glass and was still staring meditatively into it when Bodie closed the door behind him.

Doyle's car was standing next to the kerb when he got outside, engine idling. Doyle was leaning on the steering wheel. Bodie looked at the sky before sliding into the passenger seat. "Lovely day, innit?"

"Mmm." Doyle gunned the engine and squealed the tyres getting out of the carpark.

"Blue skies, lazy clouds, fresh air—" Well that was going bit far, Bodie conceded as fumes from the car ahead of them rolled in through the window "—just the right amount of sun. What more could a man ask for?"

"Coffee," Doyle snapped. The car lurched as he cut someone off, crossed two lanes, coming to a sudden stop in front of the drab little breakfast caf favoured by CI5 agents in a hurry. The dilapidated exterior was misleading; the food was rather good, Bodie remembered. Without a word, Doyle hopped out of the car and disappeared inside.

Bodie sighed and glanced across the street where a middle-aged woman with two blond children and several overstuffed shopping bags in tow was trying rather unsuccessfully to keep the smaller child—girl? boy? it was hard to tell—from running into the street. Piece of cake, Bodie thought, his good humour abandoning him, compared to jollying Doyle out of a temper.

Doyle emerged carrying a white paper bag and plastic beaker. As he got into the car he held the bag out to Bodie, and started the engine. He said something, but since he had his mouth full all that came out was, "Mmmpf roll?"

The smell of fresh baked bread made his mouth water, but Bodie shook his head. "No, thanks." Probably poisoned, it was.

Doyle took the lid off his coffee with his teeth while simultaneously pulling out into the traffic.

"Where are we going now?" Bodie asked.

"Shoe shop," Doyle replied. He tossed his empty beaker into the back seat. A few stray drops managed to land on Bodie's trousers.

"Of course. While you're at it, why not stop in to Burton's, the flower-shop and Harrod's as well?"

"To talk to Markham's employer, berk. If you'd listened, instead of wandering off to fantasyland you might know something. Can't think how I got so optimistic."

Bodie gritted his teeth when Doyle slid through the crossroads as the signal changed to red, then zipped around two cars, narrowly missing a collision. "Ease up, will you?"

After a giving Bodie a dubious glare, Doyle slowed down. A bit. "Getting nervy in our old age, are we?"

"Don't fancy buying it in a crash, that's all."

Doyle snickered. "Yeah, put a dent in your tough-guy legend, wouldn't it, havin' that on your headstone." He waggled his eyebrows at Bodie. "Don't worry, sunshine, 111 make sure they know the truth. Write a biography, with footnotes and everything."

"Nah, better not," Bodie said. "Be too depressing for the public, having such a model of perfection to live up to."

"You—" But Doyle was laughing now in earnest

Bodie reached over and ruffled his curls, let his hand slide down to Doyle's shoulder and squeezed, received a pat on the knee in return. He beamed at nothing in particular. Today was definitely wonderful, why look how quickly Doyle had bounced back out of his foul mood. He studied the clean lines of Doyle's profile, unwilling to disturb the equilibrium yet again. But if he left it much longer, they'd arrive at the mysterious shoe shop, and he mightn't have a chance the rest of the day. He cleared his throat. "You still have that dinner jacket you got for Bremer's retirement bash, or did you take it back?"

"Yeah, I still have it. What for?" Doyle turned down a side-street. He frowned slightly as he concentrated on manoeuvering the car around a delivery van parked in the middle of the road.

"Well, I hate to be the one to break this to you, mate, but the way you dress—" Bodie let the sentence trail off in eloquent statement of his opinion of Doyle's taste. "And I don't want me best man showing up in church all tatty, do I?"

"What're you rabbitting on about—" The tyres screeched in protest as Doyle braked, hard, brought the car to a complete standstill. "You trying to tell me you're getting married or something?"

"Quick, I always said he was quick."

"You serious?"

"Deadly."

Doyle stared at him open-mouthed for several moments, ignoring the horn blasting from the car to the rear. Then he grinned again. "You're havin'me on."

Bodie gave a tiny shake of the head.

"Pull the other one. You? The stud of CI5? Nah, S'a good try, Bodie, but you’ll have to do better than that if you want to fool me." He made an obscene gesture at the driver behind them, and drove on.

Bodie had known he was going to come in for a lot of ribbing, not only from Doyle, but the whole squad. He'd best resign himself to it. Too many years carefully cultivating a Casanova image—not to mention to the substance, he thought fondly—for him to expect anyone to accept his change of heart easily. Even Cowley had been suspicious.

"I'm not fooling," Bodie said soberly, in the tone reserved between them for matters of vital importance.

Doyle didn't say anything, nor did his expression change. His hands clamped tighter around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I heard."

There was an awkward silence.

"You could at least congratulate me."

"Yeah, sorry, ifs just... it's a bit of shock, coming from you." He swallowed.

"Things change," Bodie said and looked away, through the windscreen. Shock, disbelief, any amount of teasing, these he had expected. Not the moment of devastation he had glimpsed. What was the matter with Doyle, you'd think Bodie had announced his funeral instead of his wedding. He spotted their destination, judging by the large red boot painted on the door. And a parking space right in front of it Silently, he pointed it out to Doyle.

"Yeah," Doyle mumbled. "Things do change." He drew the car up to the kerbside and shut the engine off. "S'Jennifer, I take it When?"

"Soon's the Cow gives his ok." The plate glass display window glittered in the sun.

"You seein' her tonight then?"

"Yes."

The shop door opened. An immaculately-suited man stuck his head out briefly, then retreated.

Doyle opened the car door. "Work," he said. 'Talk later. Buy you a drink to celebrate, tomorrow maybe, eh?" He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and smiled; a peace-offering.

"Ok," Bodie said and got out of the car, headed for the shop.

He felt a touch on his arm as Doyle caught him up. "Bodie?"

"What?"

"I wanted to say—"

"Yes?" Bodie swung round.

Doyle was the first to break the gaze. He sniffed, knelt to retie shoelaces that were quite secure as far as Bodie could tell, stood and faced him. "I—" He thumped Bodie on the shoulder "Congratulations. I mean that"

Bodie smiled serenely. "Thanks."

 

 **Doyle** was hot, tired and out-of-sorts by the time they returned to HQ that evening. Bodie had maintained his revoltingly cheerful manner despite spending the entire day in fruitless search for a lead, any lead on the victim's contacts. The least he could do was sweat, Doyle thought unkindly on the way to Cowley's office, giving his partner a glum sideways look. He stopped at the fountain to splash water on his face, then had to scramble to catch Bodie up.

His mood was not improved when Cowley decreed Doyle should continue the trace on his own, and assigned Bodie to a round-the-clock stakeout team set-up in the Berkeley Hotel.

It wasn't fair.

Saturday afternoon found him in no better spirits. He filled out his report in the weekend silence of the office. It didn't take long. No relatives, no friends, nobody admitted even remembering the guy, except his co-workers and the concierge. A thorough search of the man's flat turned up a photo, which in turn jogged a few memories here and there, but beyond learning that Markham had gone by two other names, Doyle had discovered nothing.

Three-quarters of a page to sum up a whole week of his life. Didn't tell the half of it.

No mention of the morning spent outside a pawn shop in Whitechapel, following a tip, eavesdropping on little bits of other people's lives, because none of those lives were out-of-the- ordinary. Nor of yesterday, the bloke who took off running when Doyle mentioned the name Markham, or the ensuing chase. Doyle remembered it vividly, grey clouds overhead, the smell of dust and petrol in the air, drops of rain hitting his face as he rounded a corner, gun at ready, heart hammering, ready for a whole squadron of attackers, only to find the man cowering behind a dustbin. That wasn't in the report, either because a few questions elicited the information that the guy misunderstood the name and thought he was a bill collector. Dead end.

He set paper and pen down, and stretched, yawning.

A quick phone call confirmed that Sandra had indeed given him the push. He thought about calling one of the other girls in his book, but didn't feel like female company. Hadn't all week in fact.

Still stunned by Bodie's announcement, he worried over it incessantly in a back corner of his mind, trying to let it sink in, to make it comprehensible.

Bodie was getting married.

Bodie.

He would have bet a year's pay without batting an eyelash that it was impossible. A knot of tension twisted his gut.

Despite their background differences, he believed he had come to know Bodie like a second self. Together he and Bodie formed a country of two, with customs and language all their own. Or so Doyle had thought.

Unbearable to suddenly find yourself an exile in your own land.

Rubbish, he told himself, he did know Bodie as well as he knew himself, trusted him more. Familiar, solid, always there, Bodie was the one person he depended on completely, in too many ways to count. The pace and pattern of the job had drawn them as close as any two people could be, their entire relationship interwoven by the unspoken understanding that his life and Bodie's were inextricably meshed into one.

But a Bodie who could decide to marry was already a stranger.

He picked up his pen and unscrewed the lid, inspected the ink cartridge, and screwed the lid back on.

The knot in his stomach tightened into foreboding. How were they to work side by side— Or would Bodie resign? Unthinkable. Until now.

Doyle stared unseeing at the pile of papers on the desk, tapped the pen in slow rhythm, trying to remember any difference, however subtle, in Bodie's manner over the past several months.

Perhaps nothing was changing at all, perhaps it had changed a long time ago. The harder he thought, the further he slipped into confusion.

He dismissed the option of asking immediately. Ask Bodie? No way. He could just hear himself,  ‘When am I going to see you again?', or something equally pathetic. And any case, that wasn't what he wanted to know. Or was it?

How could you get an answer when you didn't know the question?

A door slammed down the hallway. He focused on the papers in front of him, grabbed the report and signed his name at the bottom, then attached the print-out of the police check and shoved the whole stack of papers to one corner. Ridiculous, he was, actin1 like Bodie was emigrating to Australia for Chrissakes. He was only getting married.

Doyle threw the pen onto the desk, watched uncaring as it rolled off the edge and clattered onto the floor.

"Abusing valuable government property again, I see."

He looked up to find the object of his doubts standing in the doorway. "S'mine," he muttered.

"What's that?"

"The pen, s'mine."

Bodie strolled in and perched on the edge of the desk. "No need to shout. What're you doing here anyway? Thought you'd be out frolicking in the garden of earthly delights."

"Some of us have to work, y'know," Doyle said. "We can't all get paid for lolling around a luxury hotel on expenses."

"Well, you know what they say—"

"Yeah, yeah, 'orses for courses," Doyle cut in, fending off the inevitable. But he grinned in spite of himself. "Was on my way out actually. You can stand me a pint with all that money you've saved this week."

"I like that," Bodie said in mock-outrage. "I seem to recall you still owe me one, mlad, an' don't think I'm going to let you wriggle out of it." His eyes twinkled.

Doyle shook his head. He leaned over and rescued the pen, dropped it in a drawer, rose and put on his jacket.

"Ready when you are, mate."

He followed Bodie outside into the sunlight to the carpark, listening to Bodie's patter. It was all so normal, so every day, he felt embarrassed by his earlier thoughts.

After a mildly heated discussion of the merits of various pubs, they settled on one within walking distance of Doyle's flat.

Bodie sat surveying the crowd, profile to him, a disgustingly, smug benevolent expression on his face.

Doyle stared across the table at him, considering him as woman might see him—an occupation he had amused himself occasionally with over the past year. He tried to imagine Bodie in conventional domesticity, white cottage and all, tending his garden. And where did he fit in? Third wheel? He couldn't picture himself as a godfather, either.

He set his drink down on the table. "So tell me all about it," he said without preamble.

Bodie didn't pretend not to understand. "Not much to tell, really. Things fell into place. It's time."

"Oh, time."

"I suppose I want someone to come home to," Bodie continued as if Doyle hadn't spoken. "You know, someone who knows what I do, can accept it, understand." He took a quick gulp of his beer. "Especially on the bad days."

What about me? Doyle thought, but all he said was "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Bodie said. He hunched forward, staring into his glass. "She thinks ... she thinks I matter, what I do matters." He looked around the pub again, then at the ceiling. 'Tm one of the good guys. I reckon I like that, not, you know, being the plaster hero, just... respect."

Amidst the talking and laughing and clinking of glasses, the words sounded unreal to Doyle. "I respect you."

Bodie leaned back and put his hands in his pockets, then took them out again. "It's not professional, she hasn't any real idea of the work, it's more ... it's a principle. And I'm tired of the chase." He laughed a little. "Anyway, you've seen her; a steady supply of that won't cause me any pain."

"Very romantic."

Bodie looked directly at him, then said, "It is."

Put in his place, Doyle got up and headed for the bar.

He couldn't grasp it. It was all so normal; two mates in pub, celebrating the engagement of one. Maybe he was jealous. Ann's face flickered through his mind and was gone. Didn't Bodie know how he felt?

Back at the table, Bodie was deep in a conversation about a cricket match with a couple next to them. Doyle set the drinks down and nodded at the woman, who seemed bored. Soon enough, she was dragging the husband off.

"Ah, wedded bliss," Doyle said. "Guess I won't be seeing too much of you, then."

"You see me every day."

"Cookie, he had to work two jobs to keep up with a family. So did Josephs."

"No worries on that score. She's an accountant."

"Lucky sod." Sweet, talented, well-off and beautiful. Trust Bodie, who'd had never given a rap for women beyond the moment, or for love or any of the ordinary pleasures of life; he decided he wanted to get married and the universe graciously laid the ideal woman at his feet.

"What about kids?"

Bodie shrugged. "Someday. Maybe. We're not ready yet."

We. Man and wife. Words from the traditional wedding ceremony echoed in his mind. * And if there be any who know just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in marriage, let him speak now, or else forever after hold his peace.'

"Are you in love with her, then?"

"Look, what is this, Doyle? I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am, but—"

"But nothing. Quit givin' me the third-degree."

"But do you love her?"

"Yes."

In one word, Bodie snapped the thread of their partnership forever, pulled an invisible veil down between them, Bodie on the side of normality and sunshine, while he—

He was still a cowboy.

"What about me?" Doyle asked before he could stop himself. "What about you and me?"

"Don't tell me you're proposin' yourself as a substitute?"

Doyle started to speak, closed his mouth again. He put his hands in his pockets and frowned.

"I didn't think so," Bodie said.

"Wait a minute," Doyle said. "Let me think about it."

"Daft bugger."

Bodie grinned at him, deliberately ignoring the Undercurrent, it seemed. Doyle felt his cheeks go hot with shame.

They finished their drinks in silence, broken only by the shout of the waitress for last orders. The pub was nearly empty—well, there was a disco just down the street—Doyle opened his mouth several times to speak, but each time shut it again—what could he say, really?

"Let's get out of here, shall we?" Bodie suggested.

Bodie hummed to himself all the way to the flat, but Doyle was glad he wasn't talking anymore, since he was remembering too vividly the last time marriage was mentioned. Almost two years ago.

 

 **"No** joy?" Doyle asked as Bodie returned from trying to chat up the blonde at the concession stand. He finished squeezing the water from his trainers. "Off our form, are we?"

"Let's go," Bodie said with a disgusted expression.

They gathered up their fishing gear and turned in the boat. By unspoken consent they ended up at Doyle's flat.

Bodie switched on the television while Doyle rummaged around in the cupboard, eventually producing a bottle of whisky and three bottles of wine. "Not a wasted afternoon after all," he said, setting the bottles out in a row on the coffee table, "although I'd say you gave up too soon. She would’ve come round." He filled two glasses with wine. "Here, mate, drown your sorrows."

Bodie glowered, but took the glass, then got up and changed stations until he found a Western.

Doyle sprawled on the armchair and let the sounds of horses galloping and men shouting wash over him, content to be lazy. They hadn't caught any fish, but so what. The sun and the water and the company were enough.

By the time it got dark, the wine was history, the whiskey was on its way to oblivion, and Doyle was perched on the coffee table holding forth on the dangers of modern technology.

Bodie lounged comfortably on the sofa facing him. He seemed to be listening tolerantly enough as Doyle explained his views on politics and art and how they were connected, his heart overflowing with philosophical wisdom and drunken amity.

He knew Bodie wasn't really taking it in, only hearing with the surface of his mind—but the current of communication flowed between them nonetheless—and Doyle got the half-formed idea that it wasn't the words that were important, exactly, but the sense of being understood, being known. All those words were nothing, really, a mere flourish to the silent emotional connection they had based on shared physical experience.

He stopped talking while he thought about this, carefully, testing it out. "This is good, you an' me, tonight, innit?"

"S'pose so." Bodie smiled at him.

Doyle smiled back. "Women. Who needs 'em anyway."

"Speak for yourself, mate."

"Sometimes they're more trouble than they're worth. You wine 'em, dine 'em, have some good times and everything is fine for a while, but sooner or later, three months, six at the outside—" He snapped his fingers.

"They don't like the hours we keep. Goes with the territory."

Doyle considered, frowning. He'd a hazy sense he'd meant to tell Bodie something, how he felt about him. Nothing to do with birds. "I dunno. The job, yeah, that's part of it. But it's me as well."

Bodie leant forward and poured the last of the scotch into his glass. "Drive 'em, away, do we? You need any pointers, my son, let me know."

"No, it's not that," Doyle said. "Not directly. I've spent the last twelve years holding back from the women I was involved with ... maybe I’ve done it too long. I worry sometimes. What if I can't ever stop? What if I always think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I can still move on?"

"You think too much, Ray. Depend on it."

"Don't you want to settle down, get married?"

"If it happens, it happens. In the meantime, life is to be enjoyed."

"There is that," Doyle acknowledged. "I still worry. They're all different, each one." He cackled. "Some of 'em are real different, know what I mean? I guess I've tried everything at least once. Well almost everything."

He shot a speculative glance at Bodie, a question forming in his mind, but Bodie didn't twig to it. He stretched his legs out on the sofa, hands in his lap, eyes closed. Doyle got up to gather the beer cans on the floor into a single pile, opened another, and sat down the opposite end of the sofa crosslegged. "We supposed to report in tomorrow, you reckon?"

Bodie grimaced. "Nah. Cowley let us know soon enough if he changes his mind."

"Yeah." Doyle studied his can with great interest as he attempted to read the fine print at the bottom with little success. He set the can on the floor. "You ever make it with another guy?"

"No. You?"

"No."

"Why? You want to try it?"

Doyle managed an affronted scowl, wasted on Bodie who hadn't opened his eyes. "I didn't say that."

Bodie opened one eye, then closed it again. "You're weird," he said after a minute.

"Look who's talkin'," Doyle retorted automatically. He slid himself off the sofa, and threaded his way around the obstacle course of jacket, shoes, and cans with a certain pride, and stood behind Bodie, trying to rearrange his features right side up. He gave it up, knelt and ran his fingers through Bodie's hair.

Bodie relaxed deeper into the sofa.

Doyle crept his fingers down the sides of his face, rubbing his palm back and forth across stubble. He bent his head until it rested against Bodie's. He started to doze off, when Bodie grabbed his hand.

"Wha—?" Startled, Doyle jumped back.

"Come round here," Bodie said, "It’ll be a lot easier that way."

"I expect you know what you're on about," Doyle said with great dignity.

"Have it your own way." Bodie snuggled himself further into the cushions.

"Always do," Doyle replied, thinking busily. Crazy notions he got sometimes. He sniffed. Bodie didn't appear to mind, oddly enough—probably the bastard was just having one over on him, testing, waiting to find out how deep he would dig his own grave before pushing him in and burying him with some withering remark.

His heartbeat accelerated. Mainly though, he wondered if Bodie might really be willing? He stifled a giggle, only succeeded in changing it into a hiccup. He was seriously considering it, wasn't he, in a pleasantly alcoholic kind of way, him and Bodie. Not so crazy—they did everything else together, fighting, shooting, running, wrestling—his body seized on that image, the two of them tangled together on the floor, exciting and shaming him, while his mind struggled to follow the idea through the haze. Their entire relationship was founded on the physical, on the mutual need for action, shared emotions stemming from the immediate experience of danger, and no need for words to explain because you knew and he knew, you had both been there.

He shook his head. Bodie's mouth had fallen open slightly, his breathing slowing—How typical of Bodie to fall asleep in the middle of something this momentous—when he counted on Bodie any time he got tied up in verbal knots, for Bodie to look round and catch his eye, and in that contact, far more intimate than sex, complications unsnarled, and he was reassured and strengthened.

Yes, Bodie meant a lot to him, more than he liked to admit Certainly more than he ever intended telling.

On the other hand, Bodie wasn't some bird Doyle could pick up and drop when he felt like it, a meaningless one night stand—didn't fancy himself as feather in Bodie's cap either, come to think of it.

Bodie chose that moment to yawn, joints cracking. Better get on with it, Ray, he’ll be snoring any second now, but still he stared down at Bodie.

"Don't go a bundle on your seduction technique, do you," Bodie said. He opened his eyes and grinned in his lazy way. "Make up your mind, will you, Doyle. The suspense is killing me."

Abruptly it was easy, just Bodie, the arrogant insufferable lout who had got up his nose for years, and it seemed, under his skin as well. He worried too much. Nothing was changing between them, not really, nothing ever could. Heartfelt confessions, undying declarations, those could come later, if at all. He'd be damned if was going make a complete ass of himself.

He hopped over the back of settee.

"Shift over," he told Bodie, "G'wan, give us some room."

"You're a pain, Doyle—oompf—you know that? Ow, stop poking me—Do it on purpose, you do, like that baby in Alice-Through-the-Looking Glass or whatever it was—"

Doyle ignored the grumbling and wiggled around until he had sorted out arms and legs to his liking. "There," he said, and gave Bodie a slow smile.

Bodie rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Are you quite comfortable? Better be, because I—"

Doyle shut off the predictable roster of grievances by the simple expedient of kissing him.

Bodie let himself be kissed, lips parting for Doyle's tongue as readily as if they'd done this a thousand times before. He grunted as Doyle pressed closer, mouth warm and sweet for all faint sour taste of beer, hands coming up to grab Doyle's head and drag him deeper into the kiss.

All around him was the sound of quickened breathing, and under him the feel of Bodie's heart thudding against his breastbone. He worked his hands between their tight-pressed bodies and ran it over the front of Bodie's trousers. Bodie made a little sound, pressed upwards. Doyle pulled back further to undo belt and zip, sliding his hand inside to cradle warm, hard flesh. He lifted his head and looked at Bodie, Bodie's clear, knowing gaze exciting him into frenzy. He thrust and wriggled against Bodie, gasping and huffing for air against the frenzied slamming of his heart.

Christ, it was wonderful, no stupid games, no seduction technique, like always, they both knew the score, knew what they wanted, wasted no time on unnecessary details. Entirely natural—no need to ask what Bodie wanted, or whether he was giving him pleasure, he knew the way he always knew where Bodie was on a bust-in, the instant before he drew his gun.

So when Bodie kissed him, tongue flicking out to lightly trace his lips, then drawing away, Doyle understood the mute appeal, and slid to the floor on his knees. He tugged at Bodie's trousers, yanking them free of his hips. He buried his face in Bodie's stomach at first, nervous now that the moment of truth was upon him, then expelled a long burning breath, rubbed his cheek across satin flesh of Bodie's cock, but immediately his lips met the smooth warm surface, nervousness vanished, and he took Bodie deep in his throat and began to suck, glorying in the certainty that he knew every sensation the other man was feeling.

Bodie groaned aloud. "Oh yeah, that's good, Ray, suck me, harder now—" He clutched Doyle's shoulders and forced himself upward, deeper into Doyle's mouth.

Exulting, Doyle yielded. He knew damn good and well Bodie never would say that to a girl, the first time. Bodie, the suave, smooth seducer, would never let himself go that far.

His own cock chafed maddeningly on the seam of his trousers, begging for freedom. He managed to unbuckle his belt, get the zip halfway down. It stuck there and he fought with it, desperate for the touch of his own hand; too awkward. Then Bodie's fingers were there, helping him, freeing him, holding him.

Bodie's cock pulsed against tongue, Bodie's hand stroked him and still it wasn't enough, he wanted more, he wanted everything—did he dare?

He rubbed a slow hand down Bodie's thigh, massaged his balls, then began a stealthy slide up the curve of his buttocks, slipping between the cleft. A sudden tensing of muscle trapped his hand, and Doyle froze, afraid he had gone too far.

Then Bodie exhaled and his legs parted. Doyle touched the moist puckering, paused a beat for Bodie to object; brushed across it again, getting braver, pressing inward, felt the ripple of response tight round his finger and couldn't stand one more second.

He lifted his head. 'Tm going to fuck you," he whispered, all at once fearless of going too fast or pushing too hard; Bodie could stop him if he wanted.

"Yeah?" Bodie said. His eyes darkened to deep misty blue, almost black. The timbre of his voice dropped a register. "Best get out of those clothes, then."

Doyle obeyed, stopping only to fumble through his sport bag for the tube of Nivea he'd left there. When he knelt again beside the settee he noticed his hands were shaking.

Bodie had managed to shed his own clothes and after watching him patiently for a moment, took the tube from Doyle and opened it, squirted the cold slick substance into Doyle's hand.

Wordlessly, Doyle straddled him. Clumsily he stroked the cream on his cock and positioned himself.

Bodie squirmed against him. "While we're young, Ray."

He thrust, felt Bodie's body give, and take him in.

Bodie's hands clamped onto his shoulders, pinched hard. A small groan escaped him and he held still, waiting for—what?-well, he didn't know what the hell he was doing, did he?

He touched Bodie's cock, enthralled by the throbbing against his palm, and made a fist for Bodie to thrust into.

Deep in his throat Bodie sighed..

Then their eyes met, and they were together again, in this as in everything else, all the way to the finish.

As his heartbeat slowed, he shifted so Bodie could stretch his legs. He turned his head, trying to make out Bodie's expression, but Bodie's eyes were shut, lashes trembling under Doyle's breath.

Bodie stirred and his lids fluttered open. His gaze was soft and defenceless, yet troubled; all at once ashamed, Doyle closed his own eyes.

"Was it so bad, then... I didn't want it to be."

"No."

"I'll do it for you," Doyle promised, and as a grunt escaped Bodie, he insisted, "I will, Bodie. Next time."

"Next time, eh?"

"Well, I mean... I thought... if you want... don't you?"

Bodie's arms squeezed him closer. "We'll sort it out."

 

 **There** never was a next time, though, and at the moment, Doyle couldn't think of any reason why not. It wasn't as if the next morning had been awkward or anything. Conversation stayed to the comfortable and familiar, though Bodie had smiled rather sweetly before he left. Doyle frowned. He supposed they'd never had another opportunity, really. Maybe that was it, they—he—had never made another opportunity.

Maybe Bodie thought he didn't care.

At the door to his flat he said, "You coming up?"

He followed Bodie up the stairs. You're mine, I won't lose you. The words beat a humiliating rhythm inside his mind. He should have talked about this a long time ago, shouldn't have waited to tell Bodie what he meant to him. The words slid down his throat and stuck there.

He paced about the room, aware of Bodie watching him from the armchair, but when he turned, Bodie was studying the floor.

Something. He had to do something, say something, before it was too late.

He squatted next to the chair, willing Bodie to look at him.

"Ray?" Bodie's gaze lifted to his and for a second his eyes were dark and wounded, exposing a heartache invisible before tonight. No, not invisible: overlooked. Was it just that simple?

Doyle smiled in relief and reached for him.

After it was over, Doyle laid his head on Bodie's chest, and sighed in complete satisfaction. His grip tight around Bodie's waist, he fell asleep.

 

 **Bodie** awoke all of a sudden, as he had done every morning since he was seventeen, his mind instantly clear, alert, orienting him to his surroundings. He was all tangled up in Doyle and the bedsheets.

He pulled Doyle close and kissed him, then abruptly shoved him away, got out of bed, showered quickly and returned to the bedroom for his clothes. Doyle passed him, misty-eyed and went into the bath.

He dressed methodically, efficiently. It wasn't until he was tying his shoes that reality struck and left him winded.

What to do? he asked himself, and immediately replied, nothing at all. His course was plotted; he had only to steer round the rocky bits. He knew better than to get caught again in emotional turmoil surrounding his partner. The closer they got, the less he understood, about Doyle, about himself, about anything.

The taps shut off, followed momentarily by the buzz of Doyle's electric razor. He stood and left the room without a backward glance at the rumpled bed.

Out in the sitting room he found his holster and strapped it on.

He sensed, rather than heard Doyle come up behind him. Danger, his instincts screamed, but he carried on buttoning his jacket. "Got to run," he said casually.

"So I see."

'Jennifer's expecting me this morning. Wants me to help her pick out rings." He shrugged. "You know how women are."

"Do I?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Whaddyou mean what's wrong with me? You're runnin' off to your sweetheart first thing, that's what's wrong."

Bodie looked at him incredulously. "What's it to do with you?"

"I don't believe this," Doyle said. "What about you and me? What about last night?"

"What about it?"

"What's going to happen to us?"

"For Chrissakes, Doyle, I'm not leaving you, I'm only getting married."

"Only getting married. It'd be easier if you died."

"Sorry I can't accommodate you, mate."

They stared at each other across the empty expanse of the room.

Too much to hope for, escape without a messy scene. Bodie opened the door, then shut it again. "OK Probably better this way any case. Have it all out and settled." He came back and sat down.

A dagger-thrust of dread twisted in his belly, but he forced himself to push on. "You're always angry with me. At first, I didn't mind," here he took a deep breath in preparation for a sudden burst of speed, "You see, Ray, I thought it meant you cared about me, really cared, enough for you to concern yourself about the state of my soul or whatever you call it. No one else ever worried about that, no one ever cared about me, only about what I could do for them."

"What about Cowley?" Doyle asked. "He cares. Made it plain enough the way he favours you all the time."

"Yeah, he does have soft spot for me," Bodie said, making a long overdue acknowledgement, in Doyle's opinion. "I fill a gap for him. But its CI5 Cowley loves, and we both know who would lose if it came down to a contest."

Doyle was silent.

"Then one day I realised, that it wasn't me you were angry with. I was a convenient target."

"Oh, great, he's got it all worked out. If you weren't so smug and superior all the time, it wouldn't be like this."

Bodie's jaw tightened "You're right Played right into your hands I did. You're a keg of gunpowder needing a spark, and there I was doing all the things guaranteed to set you off. Even then, I couldn't pull back like I should have done, kept going along with the program, because I thought that's what you wanted. I loved you."

"Couldn't have told it by me," Doyle muttered?

"Hardly knew it myself, I suppose," Bodie said, "Not the thing, is it? fallin' for another bloke, your partner at that. But I knew you were important to me in way no one else had ever been, and when I thought about you buyin' it, it tore me up inside. For a long while, I kidded myself that you felt the same."

"I did—I do feel the same, Bodie. That's why I can't stand this now, you goin' off without me to get married," Doyle was babbling, the words rushing out like a dam bursting.

Bodie got up and strode to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, and said, "Let it go, Doyle, can't you? Leave it. Please."

"Give me a chance. I’ll do anything—"

Hope, wild and suffocatingly strong, rose for a fraction of a second in Bodie's heart. He squashed it immediately, with the ruthless efficiency of a man who cannot bear disappointment. Hardly conscious of the gesture, Bodie held up his hand to stem the torrent. "Don't. Don't say anything you’ll be sorry for later. Just makin' it harder on both of us."

"Not saying it is what made me sorry."

Several seconds went by. "Well, that makes two of us, I reckon," Bodie said at last. Then he shook his head in frustration. "That's what I mean, don't you understand? We're too much alike in all the wrong ways."

He held his breath waiting for a reply.

Doyle's gaze flitted about the room in dull resignation, a weary soldier returning from a distant land. "Yeah, ok, you've made your point."

There was another long silence.

"Still goin' to stand up for me?" "If you want me."

"Of course I want you. You're my best mate, always will be." Doyle nodded.

Bodie shut the door softly and went down into the street, into the bright spring sunshine, where the tears in his eyes dried before he noticed them.


End file.
